A Grandmother marvels despite the virus she is able to continue gardening as she has always done and the birds will always keep singing. She listens to the distance sounds now. Isolated voices of people, a child next door. A fly. The garden is a sanctuary, vibrant of living and growing, death is not present. Occasionally she hears planes overhead, she wonders if they bring PPE. A long away siren. A conversation with a passing man, who tells her a women with the same name as her own was buried this week. Purerehua the roaring hovering stirs the final lament and farewell.